


21 Grams

by 00QEros (Dassandre)



Series: What the Water Can Carry [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bondlock, Coma, Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, M/M, Medical Trauma, Parent Bondlock, Q Whump, Q is a Holmes, Serious Injuries, Sherlock Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-16 07:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/00QEros
Summary: A trip to Brussels for a speaking engagement does not go as planned for MI6's Quartermaster.





	1. The Weight of the Human Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be part of July's 007 Fest's Angst Week, but the real angst was in real life as I attempted to participate in the Fest games and move house at the same time. Needless to say ... yeah. 
> 
> This is not a work in progress. The story is complete and edited, and I'll be posting it over the course of the next few days. In addition to it coming out far later than I intended, it (like most of my stories) ballooned in size. It was supposed to be a 2k one-shot but ended up closer to 12k. My beloved beta and muse, Springbok 7, is not in the least bit surprised by this.
> 
> I do hope that you enjoy this continuation of my "What the Water Can Carry" series. I never intended it to be anything more than the first story, but I'm still having fun writing in this universe I created and many of you have indicated that you enjoy reading what's in it, too. Please let me know if that's the case. I could use a bit of positive feedback right now ... heck, we writers can ALWAYS use some positive feedback.
> 
> Anyhoo ... here we go.
> 
> Please note that all editing and Brit-picking has been done by yours truly this time around as my beloved beta is drowning in work, so all mistakes are mine.

“They say we all lose 21 grams at the exact moment of our death... everyone.  Twenty-one grams. The weight of a stack of five nickels. The weight of a hummingbird. A chocolate bar. It’s the weight of the human soul.”

~ from _21 Grams_

 

* * *

  

“I shouldn’t go.”

“Don’t be absurd, love,” James said with an indulgent smile for his husband.   “You’re giving the keynote address, well ... Graham Vernet is.”  The alias Q used for publication purposes was apparently quite the thing in cyber-technology circles -- not that James was surprised by this -- and Dr Vernet had been approached months ago to speak at the conference in Brussels.  James and Q had thought to make a short holiday of the event, but Miranda’s immune system had made other plans.  

“But Mir --”  The men stood in the doorway of their daughter’s darkened bedroom where only the glow from her Wonder Woman night light kept the shadows fully at bay.  Q’s brow was furrowed with concern for the five-year-old who lay within. She was feverish, blonde curls damp against her forehead and breathing thick with congestion, but the medication for her ear infection and all its miserable, accompanying symptoms was thankfully allowing her to sleep, for now.  Q had tucked her in beneath her gran’s quilt after kissing his daughter goodbye.  

“She will be  _ fine _ , Q.  It’s just a bad cold and that sodding ear infection back again.  We’ve each been up this street with her solo before.”  James spoke softly so as not to rouse their little girl and pressed a kiss to the fretful man’s temple.  He wrapped his arms around Q from behind, resting his chin on his boffin’s boney shoulder.

“That was when there was just one, now there’s  _ three _ .”  He looked over his shoulder at Bond, brow furrowed beneath his fringe. 

“Which is why your parents are still coming up from Sussex in the morning as was planned when we were  _ both _ going to Belgium.”  He used his hip to nudge Q toward the nursery where their three month-old twins slept in their cots.  “Come on.  Cavnar and Sullivan will be here with the car soon, and I know you’ll want to say goodnight to the boys again before you go.”  

James saw the reluctance in Remy’s face and stopped in the hallway to draw Q into his arms; he kissed his husband deeply, languidly, to chase the worry from his thoughts.  When they finally parted, James was pleased at the smile that touched the edges of Q’s lips, something he hadn’t seen since Miranda had fallen ill earlier that morning and the two fathers had decided that James would need to stay in London to tend their eldest while Violet and Siger took charge of William and Andrew.

“I love you,” James said, running his nose along the side of Q’s. “So  _ bloody _ much.” 

“And I love you.”  Q took a deep, calming breath and drew strength from the man in his arms and the love they had for one another and their children.  

Q was still puzzled as to how he could easily deal with the stress of running multiple agents in multiple time zones through their missions, administer the second largest Branch at MI6, code programs and invent technology designed to protect the United Kingdom from foreign threats without blinking an eye, but the minute one of his children was hurt or sick or sad, he all but melted into a puddle of worry.  But James was right.  If a former Double-O and Q’s own parents couldn’t manage the Bond brood through illness and infancy while he was in Brussels, there probably wasn’t going to be much Q’s presence could do to help.

“I suppose it’s only three days,” Q conceded with a slight shrug.

“And with luck, everyone will be healthy and whole when you get back.”  James pressed an emphatic kiss to Q’s forehead.  “C’mon.  Let’s go see our boys.”

Q’s smile spread, lighting up his hazel eyes in a way that always caused James’ heart to jump in his chest.  James followed Q into their sons’ room, just as eager to cuddle with the bairns as their Papa was. 

But had he known how long it would be before he’d see that smile sparkle in his husband’s eyes again, James never would have let Q leave the nursery.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments! Kudos and comments! They are the food of creativity and the balm to a writer's soul, so please consider leaving one of each.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. For those of you keeping tabs on my WiP "Summer to Your Heart," a new chapter will be up before the end of August. It's complete and just about ready for publication. We're in the tweaking phase right now. :)


	2. The Sense of an Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James hadn’t thought that there could be anything more painful than watching Emmaline Y’da resuscitate Q in that damp, dirty tunnel after the Thames had almost drowned his Quartermaster nearly a decade before. James hadn’t believed that anything could hurt as much as the fear of losing Q before their love could be actualised. 
> 
> God, he’d been so wrong.

 

Broken.  Shattered.

God, they were hateful words.  

Nonetheless, they were the best description for what James saw, for what he  _ continued _ to see, each time he looked at his husband, but he could not --  _ would _ not -- turn from the awful sight.  To do so would be to deny everything that made Q dear to him.

James had lost track of the number of times he’d examined Q’s shaved head and the rows of stitches that sealed the vicious lacerations that crisscrossed his scalp.

James wished he had lost count of the pins and screws that held together Remy’s left arm and leg; external fixators that provided temporary stability until Q was healthy enough for the lengthy surgery he would need to repair his numerous fractures.

He hated the blood-tinged bandages that covered Q’s abdomen, hiding from view still more sutures from the surgery that had removed his pulverized spleen and repaired his bowel.

James loathed the endotracheal tube that connected his husband to the ventilator that breathed for him. 

Three days.  That’s how long Q had been here. That’s how long it had taken James to learn the  _ precise _ placement of each stitch and pin and screw in Q’s body; James knew them better than he knew his own scars.  

Catastrophic.  

That’s how the police had described the accident on the M4 that had killed the MI6 driver as well as the two senior agents who had been escorting their Quartermaster to Heathrow and onward to Brussels for the World Cybernetics Conference. 

Not a kidnapping gone wrong.

Not a botched assassination.

Just a 32 year-old posh bastard with more car than he knew how to handle and a blood alcohol level nearly twice the legal drink driving limit.  

It was possibly … kinder that the bastard had been killed in the accident.  Though not instantly, according to the paramedics.  

He had suffered.  

Not nearly as much as he would have suffered had James had the opportunity to get his hands on the murderous, drunken skullfuck.

When he had finally been extricated from the wreckage of the saloon, Q was transported to University College Hospital via London air ambulance and had been wheeled directly to an operating theatre for the 17 hour, 21 minute surgery that James felt had lasted three times that long.  

James had been sat at Remy’s side in the ITU ever since, leaving only to use the gents or to allow Violet and Siger a private chance to sit with their son.  At least he had done until an hour ago when Q had coded.

Flatlined.

Died.

James hadn’t thought that there could be anything more painful than watching Emmaline Y’da resuscitate Q in that damp, dirty tunnel after the Thames had almost drowned his Quartermaster nearly a decade before.  James hadn’t believed that  _ anything _ could hurt as much as the fear of losing Q before their love could be actualized.  

God, he’d been so wrong.

Blaring alarms had quickly summoned help to Q’s side, and James had been pushed from the hospital room, forced to watch through a window from the corridor along with the MI6 agent assigned to guard Q as the on-duty ITU physician and a host of nurses fought for over three and a half minutes to bring Remy back.  

The next day -- when Moneypenny would again force James from Q’s room, this time down to the canteen for a surprisingly restorative cuppa followed by a much needed shower in the ITU’s family en suite -- James would come to a startling realisation beneath the spray about the nature of time.  

James would realise that while Q’s initial surgery had felt as though it had taken a lifetime, the three minutes and forty-two seconds when Q lay dead had lasted an eternity.  An eternity of anguish and suffering so keen that surely not even Judas Iscariot -- who had been endlessly chewed upon and flayed open by Satan in that ninth circle of Dante’s Hell -- had experienced the like.   

But that would be tomorrow.  Today, James was a melting pot of confused emotions:  anger, helplessness, resolve, grief, determination, despair … fear.  

Not since he had still been Double-O Seven had so many disparate feelings fought within him at once.  Back then, James would use such powerful, contrasting sentiments to fuel his drive for the mission and how he would tackle it. Ultimately, they coalesced into an icy resolve that made him an unparalleled force in the field. Now, with Q like this, they simply left James feeling at loose ends, unable to see past whichever emotion dominated the moment.   Only his love for Q remained constant, grounding, but the fear of … of losing Remy --

Yes. He was afraid. 

James couldn’t imagine -- 

No.  

He just  _ couldn’t _ . 

Once Q had been stabilised again, his head nurse had given James permission to re-enter the room, but James had so quickly become focussed on the sight of him -- broken and  _ alive, _ but seeming so small in the wide hospital bed -- that James hadn’t yet managed to stray from the doorway.  A trolley rattling past in the corridor jerked James from his reflections, and he moved to sit down in the well-cushioned chair at Q’s side.

He had been encouraged to talk to Remy whenever he could, but it was several moments more before James could form the words. Before he knew what he  _ needed _ to say to Q.  Once he had them, however, James was certain they were the right ones.

Though they might not be the ones that Q  _ wanted _ to hear.

“You once told me that if I got myself killed in the field because I was an idiot, you would find a way for the living to haunt the dead.”  James gripped Q’s uninjured right hand tightly in his.  “Well, this isn’t the field, and you weren’t an idiot, but I don’t give a shite.”  

He leaned in closely to whisper in his husband’s ear.  “This will be the first and  _ last _ time I say this, Rembrandt, so listen well.  You will  _ not _ die.  Not here.  Not like  _ this _ .”

James caressed the bruised and battered face of his lover with the back of his fingers, but spoke to Q in a cold and level tone that belied his own inner turmoil.  It was a tone he hadn’t used since Silva and Blofeld.  A tone James hoped that Q, in whatever twilight world he currently dwelled in, would recognise and obey.

“If you die, you will have a Double-O chasing you, pursuing you, through eternity.  I will never stop looking for you.  I will never stop hunting you.  I. Will.  _ Never _ . Stop.  I know you remember our vows and what we purposefully left  _ out _ of them: ‘Til death us do part.’ We’re bound together beyond this life and into the next, but I’d much rather have you  _ here _ , in this one, with me and our children.”

James paused.  What he was going to say next would hurt them both, but James knew his words were true ... undeniable.

Q and he had promised absolute truth to one another.  

Always.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this without you,” James admitted.  It was a humbling admission for there had once been a time when he had managed to convince himself he didn’t need anyone.   But just as a glacier alters the landscape beneath through timeless patience, so, too, had Q changed James’ perception of himself.   “Everyone seems to think I’m indestructible, but … not like this.  They were able to bring you back just now, but I was dying along with you.  Each second you were gone.”  

James skimmed his gaze across the leads and the IVs and the machines that quietly monitored everything tangible about Q before looking back at the sallow face of his husband and forging ahead with an even more devastating admission.  “If you die, I can’t promise that I won’t follow.”

He swallowed tightly. Sherlock and John had the care of Miranda and the twins for now, and as their godparents would raise the three Bond children with the assistance of Alec and Eve and Q’s parents should anything happen to both Q and James.  They would be in good hands.  Always loved and cared for, but ...

James could never be  _ actively _ suicidal, not with three bairns, but the consequence of those three minutes and forty-two seconds when Q had been gone was that James felt … diminished. 

Faded. 

Hollow.

Three minutes and forty-two seconds and James felt as if he'd been tossed into the Pit of Despair and had one year of his life sucked away.  He hadn't felt this sensation of empty nonexistence when either Tracy or Vesper had died, and it left him reeling. 

“You’ve never backed away from a fight in your life, Q.  Even the Thames couldn’t beat you.  Don’t you dare give up now.” James spoke into Q’s open palm as he pressed kisses into the bruised flesh. “I won’t beg, Remy.  I’ll only ask.  Use that big brain of yours to find your way back.  Mir, Will, and Andrew need you.   _ I _ need you.”

James stood and bent over Q’s body, still save for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as the respirator pushed air in and out of his lungs.  He wanted nothing more than to kiss Q’s lips, the romantic in him foolishly hopeful that ‘true love’s kiss’ actually worked in real life.  

The realist in him settled for kisses to the least bruised parts of Remy’s face: his nose and temple, right eyebrow and zygomatic arch.  “I love you,” he whispered into Q’s ear when he kissed his right earlobe.  “So  _ bloody _ much.” 

James spent the bulk of the next hour taking care of his husband.  Things that Q’s nurses said were safe for him to do and that would increase tactile sensations that would stimulate Q’s brain.  

Due to the Congestion Charge Zone that was Q’s mind, it wasn’t unheard of for the man to sometimes get distracted from the mundanities of everyday life.  More than once in the early years of their marriage James had come across a shower-damp Q wandering out of their en suite-- shampoo suds still in his hair -- to jot down a design idea he had brainstormed under the spray.  On one particularly memorable occasion, Q had pulled off during the exceptional blowjob he had been giving James because something in the way James had moaned had given Q the solution to a particularly tricky bit of code he had been trying to write.  

Consequently, it was no great shock that Q could get equally distracted from some of the finer details of his personal hygiene regimen, particularly where his hands were concerned. His work as Quartermaster meant that Q’s hands were frequently peppered with cuts and scabs and scars at various stages of healing, so James had no way of knowing if the current state of his husband’s hands -- well, the right one, at least -- was the result of time he had spent in his R&D lab or the accident itself.  

It didn’t matter. 

James used a warm, wet flannel to wash away the blood that lingered in the cracks of Q’s right hand and in the quick of his fingernails.  He even scrounged up a nail file to smooth the torn nails.  He then massaged lotion into the surprisingly dry skin.  James repeated the process on Q’s right foot, joking to Q as he did so that when all this was over, he might consider opening up his own nail salon around the corner from Six just to keep out of trouble.  

James rang home when he was done, switching on the mobile’s speaker so that Q could hear their daughter’s voice.  At Miranda’s insistence, James read “The Tiger Who Came to Tea” before she settled in for her afternoon nap, her Uncle John turning the pages at home while her Da recited it from memory at her Papa’s bedside.  Feeling better, their cuddle-bug was a chatter-box of excitement because “Rosie and ‘Mish might come tomorrow with Uncle Sherlock and have tea with me and William and Andrew and Gran and Gramps and Uncle John, and I’m so ‘cited to see them, Da!  When are you and Papa coming home?”  she finished in a rush.

“I’m not quite sure yet, sweetheart,” James said with a hard swallow. He'd made a career protecting a nation on his ability to lie smoothly, indiscriminately, callously, but this not-quite-lie nearly stuck in his throat. He caressed Q’s knuckles with the pad of his thumb as his listened to their daughter huff her disappointment.  “But until we are, be good for your grandparents and your uncles and be a help with your brothers.”

Mir promised that she would, and James felt a tiny bit of the tightness in his chest ease when she told him she loved him and Papa. 

“Hand the phone to your Uncle John now, love,” James said after he shared kisses with his daughter through the line.

Though she shared none of their DNA, Mir was as preternaturally perceptive as Remy and Sherlock and Mycroft, and James wondered how much longer they could keep from her the truth of what had happened.  He asked his brother-in-law as much.

“You’ve a few days yet, I think,” John advised.  “Yes, Andrew, I know.  Almost done, little man.” James could hear the tell-tale sounds of bottle preparation taking place and the shifting of infant on shoulder in the background as John spoke.   “Sorry,” he said after a few moments of infant-care punctuated silence.  “These boys practically eat their weight in formula at every feeding.  You sure they’ve got Remy’s genes and not yours?” 

“Pretty sure.”  James smiled at the picture John had just sent him of Will and Andrew in their matching Moses baskets, safe and secure on top of the wide, rustic farm table in the Bond family’s kitchen, dark curls wild and damp from their baths.  He held up the picture so that Q could ‘see’ it, too.

“Anyway,” John continued, “Mir’s picked up on the fact that Vi and Siger are ‘sad’ but thinks it’s because she’s been ill.  If the fever stays gone, Sherlock and I’ll take all the kids to the Zoo the day after tomorrow.  Eve and Molly have volunteered to help out.  Make it all seem like a holiday for as long as we can, but you’ll need a contingency plan, mate.  If Remy doesn’t wake up soon.” 

James knew it, but what that plan would look like, he couldn’t begin to imagine.

The soldier and the spy talked a bit longer -- they'd grown close over the years -- and John admitted that with Sherlock in Baker Street taking care of Rosie and Hamish until Miranda’s fever was well and truly gone, he was more than a little bit done in.  Violet and Siger were a help, of course, but with their attention split between the babies and the hospital --  “Well, let’s just say that I’ve not had to get this creative in time management since I was still running between operating theatres at Camp Bastion, but yeah, I’ll call in Grayson and Alec if I need them.  Glad they’re back from holiday.”  

James kept the whole of the conversation on the mobile’s speaker for Q’s benefit until he finally rang off so that John could feed the twins.      

Some nameless evening hour later, James managed to eat half a steak and stilton pasty one of the HCAs brought him from the canteen before he gave it up as a bad job; it tasted like ash in his mouth.  And even with sugar, the coffee was just plain shite, but he managed to finish the cup before chasing it down with an entire bottle of water. 

James took up Q’s right hand again, slouched down in his chair with one foot propped up on the bottom rail of the hospital bed, and watched the sun set over London as he settled in for another night of strained, hopeful waiting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if this worked for you. ~~points at comment button below~~
> 
> The next chapter will be posted tomorrow once I get back from Back to School Night. :)


	3. The Apiary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If Rembrandt’s injuries were a megalomaniacal billionaire bent on world domination, you'd have snuffed them out of existence days ago."
> 
> In which Sherlock offers comfort to Bond in a way that only Sherlock can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter today, but there will be more coming tomorrow. Please do hit that comment button at the end of the story. Truly, comments help feed the creative beast, and mine's definitely starving right now. :)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading. Cheers!

_ “Those of our readers who prefer eating ‘run honey’ to honey in the comb may be glad of some instruction as to the best way of separating the two.   For this purpose, it is better to serve both its transparency and flavour.  Take a sharp knife, and slice the combs on both sides, keeping the knife parallel with the partition wall … ” _

James didn’t remember being tired enough to fall asleep, but he had, and so deeply that he never heard Q’s newest visitor arrive.  Even though he’d been out of the field for over six years, James had prided himself on his ability to retain and continue to hone the majority of the skills he’d perfected in his years as a Double-O, dodgy leg notwithstanding. Official retirement meant nothing to those who might seek revenge for things James had done whilst an agent, and Q was as neck deep in Six as he’d ever been.  James Bond had a family to protect, and the fact that he’d just slept through --

“You’ve had less than eight hours sleep in three days, and while accustomed to functioning on less in extremely stressful situations in the field, there is a vast difference between  _ that _ and the emotional stress and fear you are currently under in  _ this _ situation. Your skills are not slipping, Bond.  If Rembrandt’s injuries were a megalomaniacal billionaire bent on world domination, you'd have snuffed them out of existence days ago. Sadly, that is not the case, so it’s only to be expected that you would eventually succumb to your body’s physical needs given that the circumstances stand as now they do.”

James pressed the heels his palms to his tired eyes, blinked a few times, and then studied Sherlock Holmes across the stretch of Q’s bed in the muted, nighttime lighting of the hospital room.  “So what happened to ‘it’s all just transport?’” 

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully.  This was the nineteenth time in twelve years he had sat at the hospital bedside of a loved one.  Granted, the bulk of those were times John had been injured on a case, but Rosie’s ruptured appendix last year had driven Sherlock distracted with worry.  There had been a few complications, and he’d not slept the entire time she was in hospital.  John still contended that it had taken Sherlock longer to recover from his exhaustion than it had taken Rosie to bounce back from her surgery.  Now here was Sherlock’s baby brother fighting for his life and Sherlock’s brother-in-law fighting every step of the way along with him.

It had taken years of pain and joy and abnegation and indulgence for Sherlock to finally accept that sentiment was by far a greater strength than it was a weakness, even in those times when love caused extraordinary suffering as it did now for all those who held Rembrandt dear.  If one’s transport needed to be sacrificed or renewed in the process of protecting and supporting the loved one, well .. 

“Things change,” Sherlock finally replied with a slight shrug, and Bond readily accepted and appreciated the simplicity of the statement, a true rarity in anything coming from Sherlock Holmes.

James stood to stretch his back and crack his neck.  Noting the signs of advancing dehydration -- pinching around the eyes suggesting headache, repetitive swallowing due to dry mouth, noticeable patches of drying skin on hands and face -- Sherlock passed him a bottle of water from the worktop behind him. 

“Thanks.”  James twisted the top off and took several long draughts of the water as he assessed the digital display of Q’s vitals.   Pulse, blood pressure, pulse oxygenation were all in the range of what the nurses said were acceptable numbers.  Q’s temperature was a bit elevated, but that, too, was to be expected given the degree of injury the man had suffered, and he was constantly being monitored for signs of infection.

Satisfied with the data, James turned his attention back to the man who had been studying him as he had studied Q.  “What were you reading?” James asked, gesturing with the now empty bottle at the tablet that sat on top of Sherlock’s thigh.  

“An 1865 monograph entitled  _ The Apiary: Bees, Bee-hives, and Bee Culture. _ ”  Sherlock fingered the edge of the device as he replied, the look in his light eyes all but daring James to reply.

“Sounds …”

“Boring?”

“I was going to go with mind-numbing, actually.”

A whisper of a smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and his eyes grew surprisingly fond as he turned his gaze on his younger brother; James was thrown by how much like Remy Sherlock looked in that moment.  

“My brother would agree with you.  He hates texts of this nature,” Sherlock said, gesturing with the device yet not taking his eyes from Remy.  “Finds them tedious in the extreme.  As you know, he didn’t have the strongest constitution in his early years, and Mummy would often task me with reading to him.  Largely unnecessary as Rembrandt was reading and comprehending texts more complicated than this at an age that  _ still _ has Mycroft seething with envy, but I suppose she felt it would foster a closer fraternal bond or, at minimum, keep me from blowing up something in my lab and otherwise getting into mischief.  We certainly know how well  _ that _ worked out, but Mummy has ever been the optimist.   However, while neither he nor I appreciated Mummy’s edict, I suppose it was ultimately worse for Rembrandt since I always chose to read things that interested  _ me  _ rather than him; I’ll admit to bees being chief among them because --”

“Because Q  _ hates _ bees,” James interjected with a chuckle.  He leaned against the wall near the window and shook his head, amused as well as gratified to know that even as children the Holmes Brothers had not been immune from petty, sibling antagonism.  

When he was only five years old, Q had been reading in his father’s flower garden -- quite literally sat amongst the primrose, honeysuckle, heather, and foxglove -- and managed to get stung several times by honey bees otherwise interested only in sipping nectar from the blooms.  The resulting pain and swelling that had accompanied a, thankfully, mild allergic reaction had permanently put Remy off the honey-makers.  In fact, ‘rogue worker bees’ amidst the roses of Queen Mary’s Gardens in Regent’s Park were the only thing James had ever seen Q run from.  

“What total codswallop, Bond. I was not  _ running _ ,” Q had replied primly, only slightly out of breath.  “I was, at best, walking briskly in an attempt to outpace the sodding, stabby fuckers.”

James looked from the tablet in Sherlock’s hand to Q’s still form on the bed between them and, after a moment, back to Sherlock.  “You’re doing it now, aren’t you?  Using that monograph to antagonist Q into waking up.  An experiment, then.”  

James wasn’t sure how he felt about that until he saw that Sherlock’s eyes lacked the inquisitive delight that was always there when the man started a new area of analysis. 

“Quite possibly the most important I’ll ever undertake,” Sherlock replied gravely, and James realised that Sherlock was just as invested as he in doing whatever it took to bring Remy back to them.  His eyes held onto Sherlock’s -- blue ice to cool grey -- and though nothing was said between them, a wealth of sentiment was exchanged.

“Right,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat as James averted his eyes, each man bringing the moment to an end.   Sherlock uncrossed his legs so that he could remove his suit jacket and drape it over the back of the chair before settling himself more comfortably, and James finally caught sight of Sherlock’s Belstaff and blue scarf on the hook on the wall next to the door.   

“A solid deduction, by the way, Bond.  Rooting out my true purpose in reading to Rembrandt, but then, you’ve always been rather adept with observing the telling details to make your inferences.  A critical skill no doubt honed by your years as a Double-O.”

James was taken aback by the compliment, and though he wouldn’t permit it to register on his face, Sherlock picked up on his surprise nonetheless.  “I wouldn’t read too much into it, Bond. You’re still an idiot, but rather less of a one when compared to the masses.  John being the most notable exception, of course.”  

“Of course,” James replied drily.  It was an old bit of banter between them, well-worn and comfortable in its familiarity, and James felt a bit more … grounded because of it.  For the first time since he set foot in hospital, James didn’t feel quite so alone.  

“I won’t trivialize your love for and connection to my brother by suggesting something as pointless as returning home for a few hours sleep,” Sherlock continued, “but I will insist that you get some rest nonetheless.”  He turned his attention back to the tablet, pressed the home button, and scrolled to his last bookmark.  “Sleep, James.  For now, there is no other Work for me than this. With luck, I’ll have Remy awake before you are.”

James’ sharp nod held his appreciation and thanks.  Though he had apparently slept nearly two hours, he was still exhausted.  Tossing the empty bottle in the small recycling bin, James returned to the chair that he was rapidly coming to despise.  He tugged on the lever that allowed it to recline nearly into a flat bed and reached between the bars of Q’s to cup his husband’s uninjured ankle.  

James closed his eyes and Sherlock began to read, his soothing baritone lulling James back to sleep.  

_ “Place these broken combs in a sieve, or on a piece of muslin stretched across and tied round the opening of a pan or large-mouthed jar, so that the honey of the first drained jar may be perfectly pure, both in appearance …”  _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love! So do let me know if this is working for you. :)


	4. It Takes a Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John nodded to Trevelyan, shut the car door, and said through the open window to James. “I’ll take care of your Q.” He slapped the roof of the car twice, and Alec was off."
> 
>  
> 
> Armed with an unusual arsenal, the troops rally around James and their critically injured Quartermaster.

Sherlock read to his brother through the night until his voice grew hoarse and raspy and closed tightly around the words.  When the detective could do no more, James settled his readers on his nose and took up the task until he was relieved a few hours later by Violet who sent Sherlock home to get some sleep -- “No arguments, young man!” --  while Rosie and Hamish were still under Molly Hooper’s care.  She had given up trying to do the same with James days ago, though Moneypenny was successful in at least getting him down to the canteen and even into a shower when she visited that afternoon.

Over the course of the next days -- yet ever mindful of the strict two visitor limit Mycroft had negotiated with the ITU team -- the reading of the lengthy monograph on Remy’s hated bees was taken up by a steady rota of those close to Q:  James, Sherlock, Violet, Siger, John, Alec, Eve, Tanner, Mallory, R, April, Greyson, and, yes, even Mycroft spared an hour from his busy schedule to try to read his youngest brother to wakefulness.  

Late in the afternoon of the second day of reading, the alarms in Q’s hospital room sounded again.  April and James looked at one another for a heart-stopping moment before the nurses arrived, but this time they were not ushered quickly from the room.  

“It’s okay, Mr. Bond,” Callan, Q’s day nurse, said.  He fussed with the controls on several machines for a few moments before directing his assistant to fetch the physician on-call.  “This is actually good news,” he continued, looking over his shoulder to spare an encouraging look and a broad smile for James, though it was the tone of his voice that immediately dialed down the intensity on James’ fear.  “Your husband’s fighting _against_ the respirator.  Mr. Holmes is trying to breathe on his own.”

When Q’s physicians began the process of weaning him off the respirator, Q’s cadre of readers redoubled their efforts.

When _The Apiary: Bees, Bee-hives, and Bee Culture_ had been read to dust, they pulled out all the stops, finding articles and lengthy texts on all the things and issues that they knew from experience either annoyed Q or were likely to get a rise out of him.

There was the professional:

  * 50 things IT Professionals Hate about Microsoft Windows
  * 15 Reasons Why Your IT Professional is More Than Someone to Fix Your Printer
  * How Fedora, Gnome, and Other Software Groups Only Make Changes for Fun Instead of Thinking about Usability
  * Why People Who Set Stupid Passwords and then Get Hacked in the Tube Don’t Deserve to Have Their Data Recovered
  * United Nations Pushes for Global Intelligence Agencies to Abide by Cybersurveillance Treaty



There was the cultural:

  * The Real Housewives of New Jersey: The New Cultural Norm!
  * The Great British Bake-Off or The Great British Fake-Off?
  * Coronation Street:  All the Spoilers You Need for the Current Week’s Episodes



There was the culinary:

  * Nutella:  Not Just for Breakfast Anymore
  * Earl Grey Tea Sales Down in Favour of English Breakfast
  * 20 Best Restaurants South of the Thames



They even delved into travel, sport, and leisure:

  * South Padre Island, the New Ibiza
  * National Rugby League Round Three … and Four Predictions
  * The Extraordinary Effectiveness of Modern Personal Flotation Devices



It didn’t matter how long or short the text, if they believed it might provoke Q, it was read.  Tanner had even talked several of the Double-Os and senior field agents not currently on assignment into writing down (nonclassified) stories about tech and weapons they had lost or damaged through the years.  While James had always been the most consistent offender, it had always been Rand’s and Bella’s -- 009 and 0012 -- explanations that drove Q spare with frustration.

One afternoon was even spent with Sherlock’s tablet propped up in front of Q on the lap table playing _Kingsman: The Secret Service_ while James sat in his chair at the head of the bed, narrating the film to his love.  He provided all the commentary that Q had done the first time they had watched the film, when Remy had pointed out all the factual errors along with a complementary running editorial regarding the ‘absolute absurdity of it all, James!’  

There had been some initial debate about what had irked Q most about the film, its content or the fact that James _loved_ the movie and found Merlin sexy as hell.

“Come now, Q,” James fingers dipped beneath the waistband of Remy’s pants, and further still, until he curved his hand around the jut of Q’s hip and caressed his arse and thigh.  He nipped and sucked at that oh so sensitive spot behind his husband’s ear as he said,  “Merlin’s their _Quartermaster_ .  Of _course_ I think he’s hot.”  

James had taken the rest of the night to show Q just how much regard he had for one, particular Quartermaster.  After he had managed to wring a third orgasm from Remy, which left the boffin boneless, largely nonverbal, and splayed out half on top of James, Q never again complained about Merlin, though the rest of the film was still fair game.

The readings were interrupted on the seventh day of Q’s hospitalisation as he had finally been deemed strong enough for the surgery needed to repair the extensive damage done to his left arm and leg.  James had had the ORIF surgery done on his own leg years ago, but this was far more extensive, and the graphic memories of Q coding only days before kept James pacing the length of the waiting room until Alec threatened to sit on him to keep him still.  It was Q’s Uncle Greyson who ultimately distracted James with a game of poker -- much to the annoyance of the waiting room matron -- for the remainder of the 11 hour surgery, though he tried to decline the £700 cheque James wrote to cover his losses saying that James’ mind hadn’t been wholly on the game.

Late in the evening of day nine, Remy’s breathing had improved to the point that he was taken completely off the respirator, and it was then that John Watson literally pushed James Bond out of the hospital.  

“You stink, and’ve been living in those clothes for days,” he grumbled, guiding James out of the lift, through the lobby, and onto the pavement outside the main entrance with his hand placed firmly in the small of the former agent’s back. “Nothing but bites of take-away for nearly a fortnight.  You’ve a daughter who’s figured out that something’s afoot and two babies you haven’t held in far too long.  Take care of yourself and your children, James,” John finished as he leaned over his brother-in-law and buckled him into the passenger seat of Alec’s waiting Audi.  The retired army doctor always did like to fuss, and James was exhausted enough to let him.  John nodded to Trevelyan, shut the car door, and said through the open window.  “I’ll take care of your Q.”  He slapped the roof of the car twice, and Alec was off.

It was quite late when Alec pulled up in front of the large terraced house in Westminster that James and Q had purchased two years before;  Miranda had turned three, and they had finally started talking seriously with April about having another child.  Two at once had been the ultimate result, and the men were quite thankful for the extra bedrooms they hadn’t anticipated needing when they’d initially bought the place.  

James shared the good news about Remy with Violet and Siger and even managed to eat both bacon butties Violet had waiting for him when he arrived.  He yawned his way through a blistering shower, donned a pair of sleep trousers, and collapsed into bed, too exhausted to worry overly much about the fact that the last time he had slept in this bed, Q had been healthy and whole and spooned up tightly behind him.  

When James woke nearly 12 hours later, it was to a heavy weight settling on his belly and his own eyes staring back at him, set within a cherubic face and framed by blonde curls caught up in a long, messy plait.  

“Where’s Papa?” his daughter demanded, her bony knees digging into his sides as she settled herself.  

All the bollockings Olivia Mansfield had given him during her years as M were _nothing_ in comparison to Miranda Ceit Bond in an accusatory strop.  The look in Miranda’s young eyes brooked no argument, and James Bond -- once 007 of Her Majesty’s Secret Service -- felt genuine fear.  How did he explain to this darling of his life what had happened to her Papa?

 _One word, one feeling at a time, my love,_ the Q in James’ mind reminded him.  Three months ago, just days before the twins were born, the mum of Miranda’s closest friend, Josie, had died from breast cancer, and James had wanted to take the lead on explaining it to Mir for all that he was pants at such things to begin with.   _Miranda’s brilliant, but she’s still a little girl.  Be truthful, but be gentle._   

It’s what he would have to do now.  Mir could spot a lie faster than her Papa could spot an error in code.

James budged up against the headboard, and based on previous experience, settled Miranda carefully on his lap, away from potentially … sensitive areas  -- her knees really were _quite_ sharp.  He pressed a kiss to the top of each of her little hands and began what was to be one of the most emotionally difficult ‘briefings’ he had ever given.

“Here it is, cuddle-bug …”

Eventually, once her panic had been eased and weepy questions asked and answered, Miranda’s tears had slowed enough that James was able to wipe her eyes and nose with the handkerchief she always kept in a pocket -- Violet had once said within Miranda’s hearing that a well-bred lady always carried a handkerchief on her person; Mir had insisted Q take her ‘ker’chef’ shopping that very afternoon -- but his daughter still clung to his side with the top of her head tucked firmly beneath his chin.  James couldn’t have cared less.  In a halting, almost whispered voice, James sang to Miranda their ‘sunshine song’ and likely took more comfort from her than she did from him.

Some time later, a polite knock on the jamb of the partially open door roused the pair from the doze they had slipped into, and upon James’ acknowledgment, Siger, carrying a large tray that he probably shouldn’t be carrying, pushed open the door with his hip and entered the room.  He set down the tray -- piled high with sandwiches, scones, and a cozy-covered pot -- on the small drop-leaf table that sat in front of the window that looked down onto the back garden.  Siger pulled open the blackout curtains just enough to allow some of the afternoon sun to brighten the room.  He turned to the bed and held out his hand toward his weepy-eyed granddaughter.  

“Come, and help me with this, poppet, so your Da can get cleaned up.  Then you two can have your tea, and after he can spend some time with your brothers.”

James dropped a kiss to the top of her blonde head before she disentangled herself from him and scooted off the bed.  She took her granddad’s offered hand and the tall man -- more stooped with age than when James had first met him nearly a decade ago -- escorted her to the table as though taking her to tea with Great Aunt Lilibet.

Miranda knelt on the seat of the chair to better reach the items on the tray, and as she began to set out everything they would need for tea, Siger turned to James.  

“The boys will be fussing to eat in about 40 minutes,” he said.  “I assume you’ll want to be the one to do it?”

“God, yes,” James replied eagerly.  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and shrugged into his dressing gown that lay on its foot.  He’d missed the children terribly these last weeks, and he felt more than a little bit guilty for having --

“Stop that nonsense, James,” Siger said, interrupting James’ thoughts.  He rested a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder.  “You’ve been _exactly_ where you’re supposed to be through all of this: at my son’s side.  The boys will have no memory of this event, and all Miranda will remember is that you were with her Papa when he needed you.  Well, and probably that rather ridiculous trip to the Zoo the other day.  How Hamish managed to talk Alec into a candy-floss eating contest, I’ll never know.  I think your friend may be permanently off sugar after that.  I’ve never seen someone turn quite that shade of green before.”

James chuckled.  He had seen a hint of that green on the ride home last night when he’d asked Alec how he’d managed to lose to a six-year old.  

“Because he’s _six_ ,” Alec had grumbled, deliberately steering the conversation in another direction when James commented knowingly, “And so are you, my friend.”

James showered again and dressed in a pair of well-worn jeans and a comfortable navy jumper.  Tea with Miranda was as leisurely as he could make it, knowing that time together would help to ease her lingering fears about her papa.  They shared in Violet’s egg and cress sandwiches, though the prawn and mayonnaise were solely for James.  Like his youngest son, Siger was a stress baker, so the scones and biscuits were plentiful and delicious.  James lingered over another cuppa as he fed first William and then Andrew.  They had grown noticeably over the last fortnight, and James’ guilt flared anew.  From the way each tracked the finer details of the things around them and batted at his cheeks with tiny hands and an accompanying smile when James held them close, it was apparent that their vision had sharpened, and he prayed that they still knew Remy as their Papa when they finally saw him again.

Dusk was fading into evening when Alec again pulled up in front of the house on Hereford Road.  Siger handed James a bag he had packed for him containing fresh clothing and toiletries, and Violet offered a smaller one with more scones and biscuits.  “There’s nothing I can do about the tea there,” she said frankly.  “It’s abominable, but perhaps these will help make it a bit more palatable.  We’ll pop ‘round again tomorrow, luv.”

He snuggled Miranda close.  She had already instructed James to tell her papa that she loved him, so she said, “Remind Papa that it’s his move in our game.  I want him to make it soon.”  At her insistence, Q had been teaching Miranda to play chess.  Her kisses were watery with tears, but the look in her eyes was unafraid.  James couldn’t have been prouder of his brave little girl in that moment.

Upon reflection, it was all frighteningly domestic for a man who had lived and -- on a few memorable occasions -- died by the sword for decades.  And though there were the times when his work training and evaluating the junior agents grew tedious, and he desperately wanted back in the field, the desire never lingered for long.  James had chosen _this_ life just had he had chosen the one that came before, and while his life as a Double-O had been filled with danger and adrenaline and excitement and the unknown, _this_ life was much the same.  Just in a different way.

The big difference was that in _this_ life, James Bond was truly happy, and with Q finally showing signs that he was getting better, there was every possibility that that happiness would continue.

There had been several changes in the 18 hours James had been away.  He had rung up John after his shower and knew that Q still showed no signs of waking up, but James noted that the nurses had him reclined at a slightly steeper angle in bed.  The remaining stitches had been removed from the wounds on his head and from the surgical site on his abdomen, and it seemed that even the lingering bruises on his face and torso had finally started to fade to a sickly yellow. There were new braces on Q’s arm and leg, and the post-surgical swelling seemed to have eased.  Though James hated the sight of still more stitches marring Q’s flesh, they were infinitely preferable to the Frankenstein-esque appearance of all the external pins and fixators that had once held each limb together.  John had also informed James that the orthopaedic surgeons had taken more x-rays and were on the whole pleased with the results, though only time would tell how much use of each limb Q would have when he woke up.

Always _when_ Q woke up.  Never ‘if.’  James insisted upon the language.

Tanner was reading from the latest mental health protocols to come out of Six’s Psych department when James arrived, and the men smiled knowingly at each other.  It was quite possibly just as perfect a text as Sherlock’s bee monograph.  Q had been ranting about the ridiculousness of proposed criteria in the days prior to the accident, convinced that if they were put into practise, they would effectively ground the entire Double-O programme and put half of the senior agents out of commission as well.

Bill left shortly thereafter, accepting a ride home from Alec.  James said goodnight to his friends and turned to Q.  Now that the respirator was gone, he felt comfortable sitting on the edge of the bed with one arse cheek tucked into that slight hollow made by the space between Q’s ribs and hip.  He bent over and pressed a lingering kiss to his husband’s lips.  They were warmer than they had been when James kissed him before leaving the night before.  Felt softer, too.  Q’s lips were often a bit chapped since he had a habit of biting his lower lip whenever he was deeply focussed on a task, and rarely remembered to use the lip balm he usually kept in his trouser pocket.  The nurses, however, had apparently been liberal in their use of the ointment, and James found himself missing the familiar abrasion just to the right of centre on Q’s lower lip.

With a final nuzzle to Q’s cheek, James pulled back and shared with Remy Miranda’s edict and told him of the events and conversations of the day, paying particular attention to the changes in the boys.  He was in the middle of describing the giggle Andrew had made when Violet blew a raspberry on the baby’s tum when he felt Q’s hand tighten slightly in his.

James froze, though his heart felt like it was about to beat its way out of his chest.  His eyes dropped to their joined hands and then to Q’s face, searching for some corresponding facial reaction, but there was none.  Q’s eyes remained closed, his hand again slack in James’ own.  

“His CT scans continue to look very promising, but we won’t know until Mr Holmes wakes up the full extent of any damage that might have been done,” Q’s chief physician had told him the night before as the respirator was wheeled out of the room.  “It’s not like they show in the movies, Mr. Bond.  Waking up from a coma can be an extremely slow process.  You need to be prepared for that.”  The doctor proceeded to share with James the different things he might expect to see, feel, and hear when Q started to emerge from his coma.

He tightened his grip on Remy’s hand.  “I know you’re in there, Q,” James growled into his boffin’s ear and then pressed a fierce kiss to his lips.  “Just keep clawing your way back to me, damn you.  I’ll be waiting.”

James slid off the bed and into his chair.  He picked up the sheaf of papers Tanner had left for him and began to read:

_“Upon an agent’s emergence from deep-cover assignment, a full mental-health evaluation will be made within 48 hours of said agent’s return to Headquarters and will be conducted in an off-site, secure facility until it is determined whether or not the agent …”_


	5. Sweet the Rain's New Fall, Sunlit from Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And then, of course, there’s this,” Joanna said, stepping back from the bed. Smiling, she gestured James closer, and what he saw when he did left him speechless with hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end. It's important to remember that the brain is a tricky thing and no one comatose patient experiences the same thing when (or if) they emerge from a coma. I've done what research I can to make this a bit more in keeping with what can actually occur in hospital rather than going for a Hollywood approach. I hope that it translates well on the page.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

James was still awake and reading --  _ Bleak House _ , Q’s least favourite novel -- at half two in the morning when Q’s limbs began to flail against the mattress.  Thinking it a seizure, James jumped up from his chair and called out for help.  Nearly tripping over his own dodgy leg that had stiffened up through the night, he only distantly registered the verbal relay down the hall from the agent stationed at the door.  He knew better than to restrain a seizing patient, but it was all James could do to keep his hands to himself.

It was short-lived, and by the time the nurse arrived just over a minute after James called out, the thrashing had eased to rhythmic shudders and twitches. 

“I don’t think it was a seizure,” Joanna, the night nurse, stated as she checked Q over.  “We’ll test in the morning, of course, but we sometimes see this when patients begin to emerge.”  James watched as Q’s good right hand continued to tap out random patterns on top of the blanket.  His left side was largely left uncovered to accommodate the broken arm and leg, and even though it was caught securely in its brace, James saw that the toes of that foot were likewise quivering.

“And, of course, there’s this,” Joanna said, stepping back from the bed.  Smiling, she gestured James closer, and what he saw when he did left him speechless with hope.  

Q’s eyes were open.  

They were unfocussed, staring off into the distance, blinking lazily and irregularly, and when James called his name, Q did not respond.

But his eyes were open, looking far more green than hazel in the dim lighting of the room, and James’ view of his husband blurred as his own eyes grew damp.

“It’s a good sign, James,” Joanna said, squeezing his shoulder.  She was the only one of Q’s nurses who called him by his given name.  The others were all compassionate, dedicated professionals, but he had immediately connected with Joanna, possibly because she had children of her own, probably because she had once served overseas in deplorable locales that even James considered to be in the arse-end of nowhere.  He trusted Joanna as he trusted so very few, and he was certain that she never would have voiced her hope if there hadn’t been real hope to have.  

Joanna left him then, encouraging him to continue on as he had been doing.  At first it was nearly impossible for him to take his eyes from Q’s, but eventually he settled back into the novel, pausing only occasionally to glance at his husband.  An hour later when he paused long enough to drink deeply from a bottle of water Joanna had brought him, Q’s eyes were largely closed again, but his lips had started to move.  At first James thought Q might have been reciting along as he read, but there seemed to be no discernable pattern to the movement, and when James stood and leaned in closely, he heard no sound to accompany the action.

Q emerged slowly over the course of the next week.  He kept his eyes open for longer periods of time and started to respond to mild pain stimulus such as when the doctor pinched him on the underside of his upper arm.  His movements grew more purposeful, though none of them were overly thrilled when Remy nearly managed to pull out his nasogastric tube.  Initially, his response to instructions was intermittent, but by the middle of the week he squeezed James’ hand each time he was asked to do so.  Joanna jokingly suggested that James ease up a bit on that particular instruction lest Q stop responding out of sheer spite.  Q’s eyes began to track movement again, and he grew restless when he heard Miranda singing to him over James’ mobile.  

So intense was Q’s reaction that his doctor suggested that a FaceTime session with his daughter might be beneficial to both Remy and Miranda.  James was initially hesitant about the idea, worried that seeing her father caught between the coma and wakefulness, as of yet unable to speak and not entirely in control of his expressions, might frighten the five-year-old, but John proposed letting Mir make the decision for herself.  James agreed, and listened in on his mobile as Uncle John explained everything to his niece.

“I miss Papa, and I could never be afraid of him.  I want to help Papa.  I want to do it,” was the girl’s assertion. 

So the next morning, wearing a green and gold patterned cap knitted by Mrs. Hudson to cover the scars on his head, Q FaceTimed with his daughter, and all the lingering doubts and worries James had had melted the moment Miranda’s face popped up on the screen of Sherlock’s tablet and her delighted, “Papa!” echoed through the room.  Q’s eyes opened wide for the first time and one side of his mouth seemed to curl upward in a smile.

Even if he had been able, no comment would have been necessary from Q as Miranda took instant control of the conversation, chattering on about everything from her brothers, to going to Hamleys with Granddad and Auntie Eve and Josie, to Uncle Alec and Uncle Gray’s new puppy, Mallory, and the chess game that was left unfinished between them.

“Get better, Papa,” Miranda said as the five minute ‘chat’ came to a close.  “I love you so much!  See you soon!” she concluded with a wave for both her fathers.

Q’s eyes closed after that, and it didn’t take a doctor to see that he had been left exhausted by the experience, but James felt confident that it had been yet another achievement in Q’s emergence from his coma. John called back later and admitted that there had been tears from Miranda afterwards, but that while she had been a bit scared, the tears were mostly from finally getting to see her papa again after so many weeks.  Mir was already asking when she could do it again.  

Each milestone that followed was cause for celebration, but they began to make James increasingly anxious.  He hardly slept and was reluctant to even leave the room unless someone else was there, unwilling to risk missing that moment when Q might finally, fully wake.

“It could be days or weeks yet, James,” Alec said one afternoon after James startled himself awake, having accidentally -- in his opinion -- fallen asleep.  Trevelyan knew it was pointless at this stage to get him to leave the hospital, but he wasn’t going to sit by anymore as his friend risked his own health.  “We’ll make sure you don’t miss a thing.  Now sleep.  I’ve got Y’da on speed dial to come over and dose your arse unconscious if you don’t start taking care of yourself.”  He pulled James over to the narrow cot the nurses had finally brought in for him earlier in the week, and James was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

On the morning of Q’s 17th day in hospital, James was dozing lightly in his chair after having returned from the shower as Sherlock read aloud from his treatise on tobacco ash -- recently updated and expanded to encompass 287 types -- when everything changed.

“P-piss off  … b-back to Baker … Street ... S-Sherlock.”

James shot up out of his chair and Sherlock nearly dropped his tablet, so unexpected were the quiet yet clearly annoyed words.

“If you … even t-think ... of reading ... that … d-drivel or anything … a-about those … sodding ... s-stabby bees ... to me again, I’ll … b-burn your ... beloved … Belstaff.  Though … maybe n-not just … yet.  James, k-kindly tell my brother ... to bugger ... off.”

The voice was ragged, and the words were halting, but they were clear, concise, and quintessentially Q.

James smiled at Sherlock who was practically beaming in response.  “Unnecessary, brother dear.  I know when I’m no longer needed,” he said, rising from his chair and slipping into his Belstaff.  “Bond, I believe my work here is done.  I deem this experiment an unqualified success, though perhaps a tad longer in duration than I had originally hypothesised.  I’ll notify the doctors on my way out, shall I?”  He was already on his phone as he left the room, ringing up John with the news.  Certain things one simply did not text. 

James might have said a ‘goodbye,’ but his attention was fixed on Q who looked up at him, hazel eyes tired and tight with pain but focussed and simply the most beautiful thing James could ever remember seeing. 

Q reached out his right hand to tug on the cuff of James’ aubergine jumper, and James sat heavily on the mattress next to him. 

“Tell … m-me … later what … h-happened.”  Q’s words were still slow and hesitant and carefully chosen as things continued to fully come back online.  “I … just want ... to h-hold you.  B-been … awhile … I-I ...I …” he huffed in frustration as he searched for the word he wanted, so he settled for, “Yes?” 

Q’s eyes darted to his left arm and leg to emphasise his point, and the huff of air that escaped James’ lungs was not so much for the fact that Q was finally speaking as it was that he was clearly able to analyse and evaluate his situation -- both of which were higher order thinking skills.

“God, Q!” James whispered raggedly as Q weakly slid his hand upwards to cup the back of James’ head and guide him down into a gentle kiss.  A hitched breath, not unlike a sob, stuttered out against Q’s lips, and James pulled away but only to rest his head carefully against Q’s chest.  Q wrapped his good arm around James’ back and held him close, breathing in the comforting, familiar scent of him.  

The sound of James’ voice, the taste of his lips, and the smell of his hair, were joined by another sensation … that of tears seeping through the hospital gown onto Q’s chest and of the nearly imperceptible shudders running through James’ body that Q never would have felt had he not been holding him so closely.  Q tangled his fingers more tightly in James’ short hair, hoping that the action reassured his husband as much as it was reassuring him.  They said nothing further, though each knew it was just a matter of time before the room filled with medical personnel.  The tears and the tremors were quick to abate, and when they did, Q asked the question that had been plaguing him for some time but that he hadn’t had access to his words to ask.  

“James?”

“Q?”

“You … w-wouldn’t happen ... to know where my … s-spectacles are … w-would you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! Thanks for sticking with me. :)
> 
> Do let me know what you think.


	6. Coming Forth Anew in Splendor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you handling me, Quartermaster?” James asked tightly when it became clear to him that Q had reached the end of his lecture.

Q was moved out of ITU into the high dependency unit four days after he began speaking again, and later that same afternoon Miranda came to visit.  She climbed carefully into bed next to her Papa, mindful of his left arm and leg as she had been told to be, and latched onto him like a limpet, tears falling silently as her Da’s had done just days before, not that Q’s eyes were by any means dry.  It was fully five minutes before the two separated long enough for Q to press a kiss to her forehead, and another ten before they said anything of consequence to one another.

Violet had brought thermoses of tea, still piping hot, and containers of sandwiches and biscuits that she served to James, Miranda, and Siger.  Q received extra portions of each, which he ate slowly but steadily with Mir sat next to him munching happily on a sandwich square of her own.  He had lost over a stone since the accident, and though his caloric intake was carefully monitored, his nurses were willing to turn a blind eye when Q showed genuine interest in the food before him.

The conversation was relaxed and avoided all mention of the accident -- which James had briefed Q on the day before -- Q’s coma, or the lengthy recuperation and rehabilitation that was ahead of him.  Instead, Q hung on every word and story that his parents shared about William and Andrew and scrolled through the photos of the twins on Siger’s mobile with delight.  

“I want to p-print and… f-frame ... this one,” Q insisted, handing the phone to James and dropping another kiss atop Miranda’s blonde head.  She was curled up tightly against him again.  Her normal chatter largely absent as she was content, for the moment, to merely to be with her fathers again.  

James reactivated the screen that had gone dark and couldn’t help his snort of amusement at the photo of Sherlock Holmes holding his namesake in both hands but at arm’s length.  Spit-up oozed down the side of his bespoke suit jacket not covered by the muslin square, and there was even some dripping from his hair. Behind him stood John, bent double in laughter with a hand braced on the back of his husband’s shoulder.

“I thought Sherlock was ‘an expert at feeding and winding’ an infant?” James commented drily.  At Siger’s nod, he quickly sent the photo to his own mobile.  He’d make it a point to print it and frame it at the earliest opportunity.

Violet giggled and reached out to grip James’ knee in her mirth.  “Seems the boy has a thing or two to teach his uncle.”

“Well, whatever it is that William has planned, I’m sure Sherlock’ll keep a spreadsheet,” Siger said, mildly but with a glint in his eye that was particularly impish.  

They returned to their tea, but Q’s energy started to flag not long after.  The Holmeses were quick and efficient in packing things back up into the carry-all they had brought with them, and within minutes were saying their goodbyes.  Miranda fussed a bit at having to leave, but relented when Q promised that she as well as her brothers would be allowed to visit again later in the week.

“And I’ll be ... s-sending your Da home … to you tonight, too,” he whispered haltingly in his daughter’s ear, but apparently not quietly enough to escape the still-superior hearing of his retired Double-O husband.  Q ignored James’ frown, kissing Miranda once on each cheek before following up with a loud smacking kiss on the lips as was their habit.  “Go on, o-off you ... p-pop,” he said, closing his eyes and leaning wearily back against the mattress as she slid off the bed and into her Da’s arms.  Q listened to the hushed goodbyes and, moments later, to the click of the door as it shut behind his family.

When James returned a few minutes later, he sat down on the edge of the bed.  Q could feel his glare of irritation.

“You’re going … h-home where you will enjoy a late … supper with my parents, sleep in our … b-bed, for a minimum of eight … hours, and tend to our children w-when you wake up in the morning.  You will not return here … before half ten when we’re … s-scheduled to meet with the physical … t-therapist to determine just how s-sodding long I’ll be … trapped here.  You will repeat the p-process tomorrow night, and the following … and onward until I am finally … a-allowed to come home.”  

It was the longest speech Q had made that day, and while it was far easier to speak than it had been when he first started days ago, it was still exhausting.

The MRI and a handful of other tests he had undergone confirmed what Q already knew.  His cognitive processes were _fine_ , but there was an issue with aphasia that often had him searching for the word he wanted and -- to a lesser degree, though still thoroughly embarrassing -- recalling the correct name for something; earlier he had asked James to text his mother and called the mobile a mirror.  

It was why he spoke so slowly.  Q _hated_ making mistakes, and though he had already met twice with a speech therapist and would do so regularly, it was all Remy could do not to get overly frustrated.  James had already picked up on this and gave Q all the time he needed to form his sentences. He resisted the urge to finish them for him or provide Q with the word he was searching for.   

“Are you _handling_ me, Quartermaster?” James asked tightly when it became clear to him that Q had reached the end of his lecture.  

“Do I … n-need to, B-Bond?”  Q demanded, opening his eyes to stare up at his spouse.  They didn’t do this often.  They didn’t need to.  For all that they were both exceedingly stubborn men with dominant personalities, they had long since learned how to bargain and compromise with one another.  This was not the time for compromise, and after several long moments of blue staring down into green, it was ultimately James whose gaze yielded first.  

“The mission’s not complete yet,” he said with a knowing sigh that sounded only _slightly_ like a whinge.  

Q nodded.

“And you’re going to need me at my best if I’m going to be of any help.”

Q’s eyes blinked slowly in affirmation and he smiled.  

“And I won’t be in a position to help if I’m exhausted and irritable which is almost guaranteed if I continue to live out my life in this hospital room.”  James was, of course, fully aware that he sounded far more like Q than himself at the moment.

“Got … it in … o-one,” Q said.  He wrapped his good hand around James’ bicep -- muscles firm and corded beneath the fine knit of the slate blue jumper -- squeezed appreciatively, and gave his husband a suggestive wink.

“Oh, you’re a naughty man,” James laughed with a knowing roll of his eyes, but he took the hint, kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the bed next to Q, a bit further up on the mattress. Once he was settled, Q looked up again at his husband and licked his lips.  James captured them a heartbeat later in a long, intimate kiss that while sensual and erotic was purposed not so much to arouse as to reconnect.

When they finally parted some long minutes later,  Q carefully -- _very_ carefully -- adjusted his position so that he could at least rest his head on James’ chest.  He was well and truly done in.

“Love you, James.”  

There was no hesitation to Remy’s words, and James smiled against the fuzz of dark hair that would one day again be a mop of curls.

The months to come would be long and painful as Remy worked his way back from the accident that by all rights should have killed him, but James would be there -- in every way expected and in dozens of others neither of them would predict --  to see Q through the mission as Q had always done for him.  

By the time he would be discharged home from rehabilitation five months later -- just in time for the twins’ first Christmas -- Q’s aphasia had long since improved.  Only those who knew him intimately could detect that there had been anything wrong at all, and if there had been those who questioned his ability to return to his position at Six just two months after that -- R was _more_ than eager to relinquish the role -- the naysayers were quickly put in their places in the Quartermaster’s first week back when he would guide 003 and 004 flawlessly in their mission to thwart the assassination of the Bulgarian president by agents working for the Philippines.

Q’s left hand and arm would recover completely, though the cold and damp would cause the joints in his fingers to ache notably each winter.  However, the damage done to his leg was such that Q would never again walk without assistance.  

The irony of their matching limps and of the hydrotherapy Q’s therapists insisted upon -- James even purchased Q an inflatable wetsuit shirt for his sessions, much to the confusion of said therapists --  were not lost on the husbands.  James had planned to buy Q a wide variety of walking sticks to assist his limping gait, but the active Double-Os beat him to the punch, bringing their beloved Quartermaster canes from the four corners of the Earth, wherever their missions would take them.  And while Q ended up with a brilliant collection that would ultimately rival that of Churchill himself, it was the Scottish chestnut walking stick topped with a hand-carved handle of staghorn found on the vast acreage of Skyfall that would rarely be out of Q’s hand.

All of that would begin tomorrow, however.  For now, James wrapped his arm firmly around his dozing husband and held Q even closer.  He shut his eyes and buried his nose still further into the dusting of Q’s hair.  Inhaling the familiar, comfortable scent of his love, James was finally able to banish to the locked rooms of his mind -- where he stored his darkest memories -- all of the fears that had lurked in the shadows of his jumbled emotions these last weeks.

James nuzzled the side of Q’s head and pressed a tender kiss to his temple.  “I love you, Q,” he whispered fiercely.  “So _bloody_ much.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. Part Three of the "What the Water Can Carry" is complete. I've said it before that I never expected to write anything beyond the core story, but darn these boys and the stories they want to tell.
> 
> I hope that you've enjoyed this one. I anticipate there will likely be more (if people want more), but I've a WiP to finish, too, and my beta and muse has threatened to cage all my plot bunnies.
> 
> Please feel free to make use of that comment button below. Yeah, that one ... there!
> 
> Thanks again for taking the time to read.
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
